Escaped!
by felineApologist
Summary: B has escaped from a California prison, hell-bent on getting his revenge on L. What will he do when he learns that Light Yagami has taken the coveted position of his childhood idol? And just what would he do for a Death Note of his own?


Summary: B has escaped from a California prison, hell-bent on getting his revenge on L. What will he do when he learns that Light Yagami has taken the coveted position of his childhood idol? And just what would he do for a Death Note of his own? Yaoi, don't like, don't read.

Rating: T for swearing

Set after Mello's sacrifice, before the final confrontation.

An OC appears, but she doesn't steal the show, don't worry. ;)

B pawed through the apartment's refrigerator, deploring the resident's apparent lack of taste. Not finding what he was looking for, he stepped back in momentary defeat and bit his thumbnail carefully, wondering if he should just make tea or coffee.

Suddenly, B heard the sound of keys jangling. He shut the refrigerator door and froze in anticipation. Matt shoved the door open with his shoulder, carrying a bag of groceries in his arms and breathing heavily from the trip up the stairs. A large cloud of cigarette smoke drifted through the air and seemed to settle peacefully in the room. B wrinkled his nose. Matt slouched to the kitchen to unpack the food, his eyelids drooping. He fumbled in the dark for the light switch and flipped it. A black-haired stranger materialized.

"You have no jam," the intruder accused, immediately upon being exposed to the light.

Matt dropped the bag of groceries in shock. Raw egg seeped out of its cardboard container onto the linoleum. The plastic milk carton dented, and the resultant increase in pressure forced the cap off, spilling the contents. His cigarette fell from his lips down to the paper bag, which caught fire. Fumes from various foods burning and sizzling filled the kitchen. B stepped back involuntarily.

"Flaming groceries, anyone?" Matt drawled, trying to cover up his surprise and brusquely shoving aside his momentary fear at the nightmarish figure. He pulled his orange-tinted goggles up to get a better look at the man – a lanky guy in his early twenties with a perpetually curved spine. "Who the hell are you?"

"Are you going to clean that up?" B asked calmly, nodding to the mess before Matt's feet. (The smoke alarm had been disabled a long time ago; Matt's chain-smoking habit used to set it off at random intervals.)

"You have got to be kidding me," Matt snorted. "You still haven't answered my question." He ignored the smoldering pile and stared at B expectantly, lighting another cigarette casually without taking his eyes off his unwanted guest.

B cast an anxious glance at the fire before his gaze flickered upwards to Matt's face, or, more accurately, his hairline. "Mail Jeevas," he pronounced confidently, with a knowing smirk.

Matt stilled. After a tense pause, he pulled out a gun and pointed the barrel levelly at B's head. "That's not your name, how do you know it?"

B shrugged and edged away, changing the subject hurriedly. "What kind of person has no jam in their fridge?" Matt followed the movement with ease, skirting the smoldering heap to take a step closer.

"What kind of question is that?" He frowned. "Enough with the questions! I'm gonna count to three, and you're gonna give me some answers. Got it?" he threatened, holding the gun steady in one hand. "I'll shoot."

B remained silent, calculating that the odds of a fatal first bullet were slim, and waited for an opportunity to take the upper hand. This guy was curious, not likely to kill any random stranger who got into his apartment.

"One. Two. Three." Matt fired at the air right above B's left ear. At the noise, B skittered across the kitchen floor, twisted the gun out of Matt's gloved hand, tackled him to the ground, and replaced the gun at his temple.

"Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies," B half-sang. "For now, you can call me Rue. Now, unlike you, pretty redhead, I have killed people before." Pinning Matt's arms with his other hand, he breathed into his ear, "I don't give warning shots."

Matt was unruffled. Living with Mello had toughened him to death threats. Being shot nineteen times also had the effect of lessening his fear of guns. Besides, he wasn't stupid. The groceries lay only a few feet away on his right, within reach of his foot.

He inhaled deeply from his cigarette and expelled a cloud of smoke into B's face. B flinched away, unintentionally loosening his grip on Matt's arms. Matt dug the toe of his boot under the remnants of the paper bag and kicked it toward B's head. B instinctively threw his arms up to protect himself, letting go of Matt in the process. Matt picked up his gun once more and aimed it at B's right eye. He waited patiently for a few seconds, and then he snapped, "Okay, seriously, the silence is not doing you any favors."

B shifted, eyeing the gun aimed at him uneasily. "You're a Whammy kid. Where's the blond hurricane that was always with you?"

Matt's shoulders tensed, his bangs falling over his eyes. "Who are you? What. Do. You. Want?"

"All right, all right!" B threw his hands in front of his face and brought his knees to his chest, scooting away a couple of inches. "But I've already told you my name. It's Rue."

Matt gritted his teeth. "Get to the point."

Rue sighed comically in defeat. "Can I stay?"

Matt's visceral impulse was to say no. But then, he figured, "Rue" might just creep back in. Better to keep an eye on the bugger. "Fine," he said warily. "Don't expect anything from me other than lodgings, though. Got it? I don't eat much, so you'll have to buy your own food."

B nodded quickly and scuttled over to the couch. Matt looked at what was left of the groceries and deliberated whether to clean it up. Then he shrugged and decided to leave it; he was too tired. Kicking off his boots, he retreated into his room, locking the door behind him.

The couch wasn't a terrible place to sleep, B decided. It was reasonably wide, with an ample supply of pillows. Though it did smell a bit odd. Besides, he didn't take up too much space, curled up in the fetal position he'd adapted to when forced to sleep in a box. He'd heard from A that the great L didn't sleep, but then L was an armchair detective. B, on the other hand, had to change locations rather often to avoid being found, so he needed his rest.

Matt stayed awake for some time, chain-smoking and looking up every scrap of information he could about his new boarder.

There wasn't much to find. Clearly "Rue" was an alias. The hint that Rue had killed before turned out to be very helpful in unclogging the search results full of French street names. Within five minutes Matt had found an article in the Los Angeles Times from 2002 concerning a private detective, identified only as Rue Ryuzaki. The man sustained severe burns to his back, arms, and face from an attempt at suicide. Naomi Misora (here he brought up another tab to check the FBI database) brought him into custody on the 22nd of August. Police reports claimed that Rue was actually the mastermind behind the Wara Ningyo murders (and Matt opened a third tab to figure out exactly what those were). After reading the previous case updates in the Times and the police reports, Matt was certain that Rue, as the intended fourth victim of the case, must have had the initials B.B. As to what they stood for, that would remain a mystery.

Matt scanned the results again and found that the case had had many names. One in particular jumped out at him. _The Los Angeles BB Cases…_Hadn't Mello been writing a report on that?

Matt leaned back in his chair and thought for a second or two. Mello hadn't let him read the report, but Matt had known that it was somehow connected to L and the orphanage. A thought occurred to him—L's deranged successor had been called B, hadn't he? And this B had fled when he was sixteen and simply disappeared.

Had Backup left the orphanage to become a murderer? It seemed incredible. Matt glanced back at his bedroom door reflexively. Rue, or perhaps more accurately, B.B., seemed to be the obsessive type and didn't like doing things for no reason. Matt probably had nothing to worry about as long as he didn't piss him off. _'What did he say about jam earlier?'_ Matt thought. _'Maybe I should buy him some…'_ Yawning, Matt closed his laptop with finality, snubbed out his cigarette, and crawled into bed, hiding his gun underneath the pillow.

A/N: Just in case anyone's confused, Matt survived by virtue of bulletproof vest and is now almost 20 (I plan to write a fic for the sole purpose of explaining that); Mello is dead; B is around 22 or 23. And we're going to assume, for identity's sake, that B's love for sweets was genuine. If you have any spare rotten produce to throw, go ahead; I'd love to hear it as long as it is _informative_. I don't write very often, so I'd love some help from you more experienced fic writers. :D


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